


As Luck Would Have It

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28950981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Getting stranded in a foreign country is the sort of thing that could happen to anyone.
Relationships: Mark Darcy/Bridget Jones
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of this literally came to me in a dream. Started in 2019... I can't believe it's taken me this long to finish it.

It was a nice sunset, at least.

That was Bridget's only consolation as she stood at the seashore. The sun dipped down closer and closer to the horizon, painting the sky with pinks, indigo blues, and purples that reflected on the ripples below. Stranded in this pretty little German town hundreds of miles from home with a paltry amount of cash, no purse, no means of transportation, no mobile phone, and no apparent functioning cashpoints for using the bank card that she had, she supposed it was in her nature to make the best of a terrible situation, and to take solace in the beauty of nature. She knew she would have to consider where she'd sleep that night; any hotel could probably take her bank card, but her cash reserves were not so great as to actually cover a charge.

She sighed, drawing a long sip from the coffee she'd purchased to keep warm, but almost choked on it, gasping as the sun had apparently started to rise again. "What on earth—how can that be?" she whispered.

A voice spoke, startling her: "Optical illusion."

She looked to the man who had appeared beside her. A tall gent, with short, dark, wavy hair, he looked with obvious amusement at her. He continued, "The sun is not _actually_ skipping on the surface of the lake like a stone. It's an atmospheric trick."

"But you saw it too," she said. He nodded. "Whew. Oddly, that makes me feel better."

A silence descended as the wind ruffled her hair, as the sun made its final dive below the horizon. She finished her coffee, then let out a long sigh. She couldn't put it off any longer; she had to figure out where to go next. It might have been late summer and still fairly warm during the day, but it was getting cooler by the moment now that the sun was set, and she couldn't very well sleep outdoors.

"Are you staying nearby?"

She looked to her side again; the stranger was still standing there. Under normal circumstances, she would have felt a bit creeped out, but there was something kind about him. Something familiar, perhaps; maybe it was because he was English, too.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

His brows raised ever-so-slightly. "You don't know?" he repeated.

"It's a long story," she said.

"What's the short version?"

"I'm stranded here."

"Here at the shore?"

She shook her head. "In Lindau."

He seemed very thoughtful. "I have time for the long version if you do," he said. "Why don't you let me buy you something to eat? There's a pub not too far from here."

She was about to politely decline, but she felt her stomach growl as if to override the logic of her brain. "That would be very nice of you," she said. "Thanks."

He held out his hand to gesture in the direction that they should walk, and they fell into step for what she presumed would be a short walk. 

"We're not getting into a car, are we?" she asked, suddenly concerned that he might in fact be a madman.

"No," he said with a smile and a light laugh as he pointed to a building on the corner. "It's right there."

He reached forward to pull open the door for her. The place was very quiet, dimly lit, and fairly empty. A low tune was playing, something that reminded her of a Celtic fiddle.

"So, what brings you here?" she asked as they took a seat at a table.

"I was in the area for work," he said, leaving her wondering what it was he did for work to bring him so far from home. "After I was done with that, I decided to take a drive, see the sights, and I'm glad I did. It's beautiful here. What's your 'long story'?"

She sighed. "I don't know where to begin."

"Perhaps you'd like something to drink first."

She nodded. "I would, thanks," she said. "Chardonnay, if they have it."

He returned shortly with a glass of pale wine and a pint of beer. He set the wine down in front of her, from which she took a long sip as he took his seat again. "So what's going on? Maybe I can help."

She didn't even know what his name was, and he was being kinder to her than her last boyfriend had ever been. Everything seemed to catch up with her at once; tears flooded her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just been a really long, _really_ awful day. I don't even know where to start."

He reached forward and took her hand in both of his, offering no more than reassurance. Gently, he said, "Start at the beginning."

So she explained it all: she'd travelled to Germany to research a story for work, and it had all started out just fine, until it wasn't. Absentmindedly she'd gotten on the wrong bus, couldn't get off, had ended up in the town of Lindau, then realised she'd left her bag behind with everything in it (including her passport and mobile). "If not for the money I'd had stuffed in my pocket, I'd have nothing."

"Surely this is not insurmountable," he said. "The first order of business is to contact wherever it was you left your bag. So where did you leave it?"

"The airport," she said sheepishly.

"Which?"

"Bodensee, I think it was called."

"Okay." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slender mobile phone from his pocket, then punched a few numbers in. He spoke a few words in German that she didn't understand, until she heard him ask, " _Sprechen Sie Englisch_?" Then he smiled. "Great. My German is not that good. Who can I talk to about a lost item? Thank you."

After what Bridget assumed was a couple of transfers, his gaze moved back to her. "One moment. She can describe her bag to you directly." He handed her the mobile, which she took.

"Hi," she said. "Um, I left my weekend bag in—" She felt her face flush with embarrassment. "—the Café Bar Volare. It's black with red edging and red handles, slightly rounded… you know, a duffel bag shape? It's not very large, maybe… half a meter long? And it's embroidered with my name between the handles."

"All right," said the voice on the other end. "I will have a look, please hold."

After a few minutes of terrible hold music, the airport concierge returned. "Miss, I believe we have your bag. Can you describe what's inside?"

She found herself tamping down a squeal. "Some jumpers, trackie bottoms, my purse—er, a blue handbag—with my wallet and passport… and some…" She flushed again, thinking of her pants. "…other items."

"And your name?"

She gave it in full, realising as she did that her saviour had left the table; he'd gone over to the bar, possibly getting another pint, or ordering some food. 

"Yes, I can confirm, this is your bag," the concierge said. "Shall we deliver it to your hotel?"

"Um," she said, looking up to where he stood at the bar. Her hotel, which she had never arrived at in order to check in, was probably at least 20 miles away, and they had probably released her room, anyway. "One moment." She rose from the table and ran over to where he stood. "They have it, but I don't know where to have them send it."

He took the phone. "I'll have them send it to my hotel. I'm going to place an order—do you like sausage?—if you want to wait at the table." She nodded, and he turned back to the mobile. "Yes, you can send the bag to the Hotel Bayerischer Hof in Lindau." That was as much as she could hear before she got too far away. 

Just as she finished her wine, he returned to the table. "All settled."

"I don't know how I can ever thank you, Mr—oh, God, I feel foolish. I don't even know your name."

He chuckled. "I don't know yours, either," he said. He held out his hand in offer. "I'm Mark."

She laughed lightly, taking it and giving his hand a good shake. "I'm Bridget," she said. "And I can't thank you enough."

He waved it as if to say, 'think nothing of it.' "I'm glad I could be of help," he said. "This has been far more interesting than spending it alone in my hotel. Oh. When we're done here, I'll see about getting a room at the hotel for you. You've got to sleep somewhere."

She smiled. "What is it that you do for a living? Guardian angel?"

He smiled, too. "Close."

It was then the barman brought their dishes to the table. The delicious scent of sausages and potatoes filled her nose and caused her to instantly salivate. "I'm really glad I'm not a vegetarian," she said, picking up a fork, stabbing a potato cube, and eating it; she heard him chuckle low in his throat.

" _Fraulein_ , would you like another glass of wine?"

"Mm-hmm," she said, then swallowed the bite she'd taken. "Yes, _please_." She speared the sausage with a fork, sliced into it with the knife. "This may be the best meal I've ever had."

"When was the last time you had something to eat?"

"Hm," she said between bites. "This morning in my flat."

"I'm sure the fact that you didn't eat anything all day has something to do with how delicious this sausage is."

She laughed. "No, no, it really is _amazingly_ good." 

And she proved it by not saying another word until the entire plate of food was gone, as well as the second glass of wine.

As it turned out, Hotel Bayerischer Hof was also within walking distance of this pub—"I always like to wander on foot around a place I'm visiting, if I can," Mark explained—and upon arrival they went directly to the concierge. Unfortunately, the attempt to get a second room went nowhere. No vacancies remained.

She felt herself deflate. The winning streak had to end sometime, didn't it? "Well, I appreciate you checking," she said. "I suppose there must be something like an all-night café here, right? It's still tourist season, isn't it?"

To her surprise, he said, "I'm not going to let you spend the night in a café. There's plenty of room in my suite. Come on upstairs." When he stepped forward, she didn't follow. He turned and offered a smile. "No strings attached, I promise."

Sheepishly, she smiled. "Can't blame a girl for being cautious."

"I know that all too well."

"But you're sure?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I weren't."

She could not help but wonder what it was he did for a living that afforded him the ability to get this enormous suite at this hotel. The suite's windows framed a grand view of Lake Constance; the coast twinkled with lights, the dark sea peppered with the light of an occasional bobbing boat. It was stunning.

"I'll take the sofa," he said.

"Oh, no, I can't do that," she said, turning around to face him. "This is _your_ suite. It looks like it cost more for a night here than what my entire work travel budget provided. You should get to enjoy what you're paying for."

"And I _wouldn't_ enjoy it knowing my guest was on the sofa."

She pursed her lips. Bloody English propriety.

"I'll just need a moment to get ready for sleep in there, but feel free to take advantage of the amenities," he said, gesturing towards the door. He smiled. "Use as much of the hotel shampoo, conditioner, soap that you want." After a pause, he added, "I'm _not_ saying you _need_ it."

She chuckled. "I knew what you meant."

"I just know travelling always makes me want to stand under a hot stream for an hour or two."

"I don't think I'll need _that_ long," she said with a grin. "But thank you."

She turned back to gaze out to the lights on the coast; her mind wandered to think about all of the tasks she'd have to do the next day. Getting back her bag (and her mobile phone), contacting the hotel she was supposed to have checked into, not to mention all of the work she'd have to catch up for the day she'd lost. It was all a bit overwhelming. The only thing that brought her relief was the gratitude she felt that this man—this _gentleman_ —was so kind as to help her in her hour of need.

"I'm all finished," he said; she turned at the sound of his voice to see that he had somehow already showered and changed into business suit-style pyjamas and a matching dressing gown, which he'd tied neatly at his waist. "There's a hotel robe you can use, fresh flannels and towels, and of course the toiletries."

"Of course," she said with a grin.

"I don't need anything more in there, so you can just head to sleep whenever you're ready," he said. "I may stay up a bit longer to catch up on the day."

She nodded.

"Oh, and I know your bag will be here in the morning, but the hotel has an overnight laundry service… just drop your things in a laundry bag and leave it outside the door there, and I'll send it down."

"That'd be… wow. Amazing," she said, certain that her trousers could stand up on their own at this point. "I know I keep saying this, but I can't express how thankful I am for everything."

"I'm just pleased I was in the right place at the right time," he said, with another kind, patient smile. "Good night, Bridget."

"Good night."

The door was not to the _en_ _suite_ as she'd thought, but to an actual bedroom with a separate _en_ _suite_ of its own—in retrospect, this made sense, as she'd seen no bed as yet. She found the laundry bag as he'd mentioned, and stripped her clothes directly off into it, dropping it just outside the bedroom door. The shower's water pressure was perfect, and the heat from the water melted the tension and stress from her body. She scrubbed at her hair and her face, and used the entirety of the tiny bar of soap in the flannel to wash herself. He'd been right; standing under the hot stream had been just what she needed. 

She wondered if it was all right to use the comb, then realised it was embossed with the hotel's name, and sat next to a wrapped toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste, so he'd probably left it out for her. After working the comb through her wet locks—the conditioner was not very good, she lamented, and her hair was going to be all peaks and horns by the time the morning came around—she worked a dollop of lotion over her face.

Also hanging on a hook on the _en_ _suite_ door was a crisp set of clearly brand-new set of pyjamas, much like the ones he'd been wearing. She supposed he brought a spare pair on his trips, though she was going to feel like she was swimming in them, for as tall and as broad as he was. But he'd been kind enough to leave them out for her, along with the toothbrush, toothpaste, comb… 

_He seems very thoughtful_ , she thought. _If only I had my diary with me…_

She didn't bother with the robe to go from the _en_ _suite_ to the bed. From the moment she fell onto the bed and burrowed under the sheets, she was fast asleep, waking only at the sound of a tapping at the bedroom door. 

She jerked her head up at the sound, realising at once that the sun was brightly shining through a part in the drapes. In a moment of utter discombobulation, she shouted, "Mum, it's too early!"

After a moment of utter silence, she heard a voice that brought the disaster that was yesterday back to her in a rush. "Pardon?"

The nice gentleman. Her hour of need. 

Groggily, she managed, "Sorry, what is it?"

"Your laundry's back, your bag is here, and I'd like to know what your preference is for breakfast."

How late had she slept? "I'll be right out."

She and smoothed her hair down with a damp comb, cleaned her teeth; she slipped into the robe and cinched it at the waist before popping out into the main part of the suite. 

She wasn't sure how to feel about the amused smile on his face. "Good morning," he said. "Your things are on the chair there." His smile broadened a little. "Since you're risking getting lost in that robe."

"Thank you," she said. "And I'll just have some coffee with milk and… I don't know, pastry? With chocolate, preferably."

"I'll see what they have."

"Thanks." She swept her bag up—never had she been so glad to see her bag!—and her laundry to take with her into the bedroom. "I'll be right back."

As soon as she shut the door behind her, she tossed the bag onto the bed and looked through it. Relief washed over her as she pulled out all of those items that she never thought she'd see again: her passport, toiletries, mobile… and especially her diary.

Without hesitation she took the mobile and plugged it in, and as she inserted the charging cable, she realised that the case had been damaged. The phone fell apart in her hand. "Fuck," she muttered, wrapping the charging cable around the phone to hold it together, then shoved it back into its usual pocket—which caused her to realise the damage had likely happened because she'd left it in an exterior pocket.

 _Can't win them all, I suppose_ , she thought.

She dressed for maximum comfort in yoga pants and a tee-shirt, then slipped into her cardigan. Between the shower, the good night's sleep, and having her things back, her outlook on life had improved immeasurably. She brushed out her hair then tied it back into a low ponytail, before taking out her makeup and patting powder on her face. She offered herself a smile in the mirror, then gathered up all of her things and went out into the main part of the suite, where she found her benefactor reading a newspaper.

"Breakfast should be here shortly," he said, then looked up. "You're in luck. They had chocolate croissant. Since they're apparently not very large, I ordered you two."

"Really appreciate it."

"Oh, I didn't ask," he went on. "Your bag. Everything accounted for?"

She nodded, then explained that her mobile had been damaged. "My own fault for packing it where I did. I'm afraid it's a lost cause," she said.

"Do you need to contact anyone?"

"Oh. I should contact the hotel, come to think. See if they still have a room for me," she said; now that she had her things again, she had their name and contact info. Thank God it hadn't only been on her phone. 

"Why not call them now? I'll get the door when breakfast arrives."

She dug into her bag and found the hotel contact information. Mark suggested she use the hotel's phone. 

Sheepishly, she said, "Do you know how to dial this number?"

He chuckled. "You don't need a country code for Germany while you're in Germany. Just dial it without."

She grinned. "Thanks. After breakfast, I can try to figure out which train or bus can get me to Meersburg."

She dialled and reached the hotel with no issues. To her delight they spoke English. As she explained what had happened, they seemed very sympathetic, and told her that they did indeed still have a room for her. She confirmed that she would be there that afternoon to officially check in.

As she concluded the call she realised that he had gone to the door to welcome breakfast's arrival. He was placing their respective dishes at the small kitchen table there in the suite. 

The pastries were not what she would have called small, but she was grateful for them anyway, because she felt hungry enough to be able to eat them both. For himself, he'd ordered what looked to her to be a full English. She chuckled. They must have been used to catering to tourists here.

They spent many moments in silence while they began to eat and drink their coffee. The silence was broken by Mark asking, "So what brings you to Meersburg, anyway?"

"Mm," she said, her mouth full of chocolate croissant. Quickly she swallowed. "Sorry. Research for work."

"What is it that you do?"

"Television researcher."

It seemed to her that he looked at least a little impressed. "I assume this is research you can't do over the internet?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"I think so. Lots of historical museums around here. Not everything's digitised." She sipped her coffee. "Honestly, I don't mind. If they want to send me abroad at their expense, I'm happy to go. I love travelling."

He smiled. "This isn't a holiday."

"Oh, I know that," she said, bristling slightly; she _had_ begun to feel like it was a holiday, though would never admit as much to him. "I have a list of museums to visit, and I'm going to have to make up for losing all of yesterday."

"Hmm," he said. He pulled out his mobile and started tapping its screen. Then he raised his brows. "You might lose another day going by bus, train… and _ferry_ , apparently." He turned his mobile to show her what he'd brought up and her heart sank. His map route showed an transit trip totalling about four hours, inexplicably along the southern shore of the lake.

"Oh no," she said. She hadn't considered how far in the opposite direction she currently was from the airport, even farther from her final destination.

"Listen, if you can stand to wait for me to check out, I'm driving in that direction anyway. I'll take you there, if you want."

She didn't know if it were true or if he was just continuing to be an unusually nice man, but she smiled and nodded. "If it's really all right, I'd like that. God, I can't believe how much I've fucked this up."

"I'm sure once you explain," he said, "your work will be sympathetic. I mean, getting lost is the sort of thing that could happen to anyone."

She stared at him for a moment, wondering how on earth he had managed to pluck one of her own favourite phrases from her head. "Except you," she said. "I can't imagine you getting lost."

He chuckled low in his throat, then murmured, "Believe me. It happens."

She pulled all of her things out of the bedroom, so that he could get properly dressed and pack his own things. She realised that the suite had a little balcony, so she took her coffee and went through the sliding door to sit at the little café table out there. It was a beautiful morning for such an outstanding view; the sky was cloudless and the sun danced on the surface of the lake. A gentle breeze teased at her hair, and she took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Given how awful she'd felt the night before, and how much work she had yet to do before her flight home, she felt totally relaxed and peaceful in that moment. 

"Quite spectacular, isn't it?"

His voice interrupted her thoughts and she turned to look up at him. He was perfectly groomed and in a similar casual outfit to the one he'd worn the night before—khaki trousers and a light jumper.

"Mm, yes, I could get _lost_ in this view," she said, then laughed lightly as she sipped her now-tepid coffee. "In fact, I think I did. How long have I been out here?"

"About an hour."

"Wow," she mused. "So you're ready to go?"

"I am, if you are."

She realised that he meant that he was waiting on her. "Right. Sorry." She got to her feet, but as she did so her leg hit the table, which knocked her cup over, sending the remainder of her coffee splashing out. "Sorry," she said again as her face flushed red with her embarrassment. At least it hadn't splashed on him.

"Accidents happen," he said wryly. "I'll let them know it needs attention when I check out, so let's not worry about it right now."

She followed him back into the room, where she gathered up her bag and he gathered up his suitcase, garment bag, and smaller toiletry bag. 

"Do you need a hand there?" she asked as they made their way to the lift.

"I can manage, but thanks," he said. "I regret that I can't offer to carry your bag for you."

She smirked. He really was out of another time in so many ways.

………

The drive was a pleasant one spent mostly in a comfortable silence, with a couple of stops to stretch their legs and get a light lunch (or as light a lunch as one could get in Germany, she supposed). He seemed to be deep in thought while driving, concentrating on what she assumed was an unfamiliar route despite the GPS guidance, and didn't want to interrupt him. She had a lot to think about, too; what she'd do after getting checked in to her own hotel, where she'd begin… she desperately needed to repair her phone if she wanted to take pictures or dictate notes. She deeply regretted having left her laptop at home, though she suspected it might have also gotten damaged or stolen, so maybe it was a blessing in disguise…

She also wondered how on earth she was ever going to repay the man behind the wheel for his kindness. 

She didn't know how to read the majority of the German road signs, but she occasionally saw the sign that showed the decreasing number of kilometres to Meersburg. She found herself eager to get checked in, then get to work—mostly so that she wouldn't get sacked.

"We're about twenty minutes out," came Mark's voice, interrupting her from her thoughts and back to the present. 

"Oh, great, thank you," she said. "Was in my own world, there. Sorry."

"Don't apologise," he said. "I was kind of in my own world, too."

"Well, you're driving," she pointed out. "That's a pretty good excuse."

She heard a little chuckle come from him. "Suppose you have a point," he said. "I don't like to be distracted when driving. Not to say I mind conversation, but… for instance, I've had several SMS messages from my mother since we left. I'm not even tempted to look until later."

"You have far more restraint than I do," Bridget said. 

Mark focused on the road again. "Very dangerous if you're driving."

"I know," she said, then thought wryly to herself, _Sounds like my bloody mother_. _Oh well. No one's perfect._

………

The hotel turned out to be absolutely beautiful; it was also right on the lake, and was charming and cosy, so much so that she was sure at first there must have been some kind of mistake in the information she'd been given, that there was no way her work would have intentionally gotten her such a lovely place to stay. But no, she confirmed at the front desk that she was in fact registered.

"Well, Bridget, it was nice making your acquaintance," said Mark, as the concierge, Grethe, prepared the paperwork for her stay.

"Nice making yours," she said, smiling broadly. "Thank you again, for everything."

"Glad to have helped," he said. "Good luck with your work."

"And safe driving, for you."

"Take care," he said, then with a cordial smile, he turned and was on his way out the door.

Once the room arrangements were settled, she decided her first order of business was to get her phone fixed, and the concierge was all too happy to direct her to a local business. "We can bring your bags up to your room, miss," Grethe said, "so you can get there straight away."

 _'Miss'?_ she thought; _I love her_. "Thank you so much," she said with a grin. 

The repair shop turned out to be just a few doors down. To her great relief, the man at the counter spoke English, and they promised to have her mobile repaired before the end of the business day. _Must be a slow day_ , she thought, but she was grateful, all the same. From there she went on to a nearby historical museums to do research about zeppelins. She assumed that the information she needed to get was not available on the internet, or they would not have sent her all the way here. In a moment of panic, she worried that everything would be in German, but to her great relief they had information in English, too.

Before she knew it, the curators were announcing that the museum was closing in thirty minutes, at 18.00. _Fuck_ , she thought. _What time does that repair shop close?_ She gathered her things up and hastily retreated to the shop, to find that it had closed an hour before. She mused that if she'd been able to set a reminder on her mobile as she usually did… 

Picking up her mobile would just have to be the first thing she did in the morning, so she refocused her thoughts to those of dinner, as she was suddenly ravenous. She marched directly to the concierge to ask where she might go for a good supper, but she hadn't the chance to ask before Grethe said, "Your friend, miss." And then she pointed to where a figure sat in a wingback chair by the window.

Bridget turned to look, and furrowed her brow. It was in fact her benefactor, Mark, who looked up from the magazine he was reading and offered a smile. He set it down, got to his feet, as she walked nearer to where he was.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, which she regretted immediately. "I don't mean it's not nice to see you again, but I expected you to be halfway to, I don't know, France by now."

He chuckled. "Switzerland, actually. It's the strangest thing," he said. "I got about twenty minutes away when I realised I hadn't checked the SMS messages from my mother. When I pulled aside to put some petrol in the car, I checked them and… well, they were about you. Assuming you're Pam and Colin's daughter."


	2. Chapter 2

For a long moment, she could not find words. She was not even sure she had even heard him correctly, but surely she didn't imagine him saying her parents' actual names. For a lack of anything more useful to say, she blurted out, "What?"

"I was just as surprised as you are," he went on, ignoring her idiocy out of kindness (or so she dearly hoped). "Apparently, since you had not responded to messages or checked into your hotel when expected, your boss got worried, which in turn got your parents worried. They called my parents, who knew I was in this general area, asked me if I'd happened to see you, and… as luck would have it, I had."

She sat with her mouth slightly agape. As luck would have it, indeed. "So you came all the way back here?"

"I tried phoning to the hotel but I was getting terrible signal, so, since I was not too terribly far away, I came back."

"But I've been gone all day," she said. "Oh my God, I hope you haven't been sitting here all day."

"Most of the day," he said with a grin. "It's all right. As long as I get to the airport in Zurich in a few days, I'll be fine."

"And I have to say 'Thank you,' yet again," she said. "Oh no. I still don't have my mobile."

"It's all right. I told my mother what happened, so they'll pass that on to your parents, and presumably your parents will pass it to your boss."

"So, who are your parents?" Bridget asked, realising at it came out of her mouth that it was straight out of Austen. She flushed red. "I mean, if they know my parents, I must know them, and yet, I didn't know you…? That seems weird."

"The Darcys," Mark said. "Malcolm and Elaine."

She brought her hand up. Oh my God. The man with whom her mother had been threatening to set her up. This was him. Mark Darcy.

Mark continued, laughing lightly, "Clearly, you know them. Why don't we go and have some supper, and we can discuss our strangely close-but-not-close acquaintanceship?"

She nodded in agreement, though hardly heard the invitation for the buzzing in her ears. _This_ was the man she'd been vehemently resisting meeting for a date.

As they walked the short distance to a local pub, she said quietly, "It's such a small world."

"Hm?" he asked.

"It just seems so unlikely, doesn't it? That you and I would randomly meet under less than ideal circumstances—for me, anyway—so far from home, after never meeting when we lived in the same tiny village thousands of miles away?" 

"Not thousands," Mark said. "But I take the point. It does seem very unlikely."

Bridget was not a superstitious person, but she could not help wondering whether this was fate at work. _Gah_ _, Bridge, don't be a fucking dolt_ , she thought. _Don't romanticise your rescuer. He seems like a nice man, but you know what they say about things that seem too good to be true…_

She opted for some bratwurst and beer—when in Rome, and all that—and within short order was feeling pleasantly full and more than a little buzzed. This state of being seemed to facilitate conversation; her schooling, background, and work history, then his, and then all of the ways their lives had intersected without actually intersecting. The summer fetes. The Turkey Curry Buffets. The fancy dress parties. The Alconburys and the Enderburys.

"I just can't get over it," Bridget burbled. "Don't you think it's weird? It's so _weird_."

He laughed lightly. "It's pretty weird," he said. "But, you know what they say."

"What do they say?"

"Better to meet later than not at all."

"That's true!" she said with a grin. "That. Is. True. Hoo. Sorry. I'm a bit plastered."

"Not hard to do on the beer around here," he said, chuckling. "So how long are you in Meersburg, anyway?"

"I fly out of Bodensee on Wednesday," she said. "Why?"

He tilted his head to the side, shrugging a little in a nonchalant way. "I was hoping we could connect again once we're back in London." Her heart skipped a beat. Was he asking her out? "Coffee, or drinks, you know," he added. Maybe not.

"You said you fly back in a few days?"

He nodded. "Also Wednesday. Out of Zurich."

"You said."

"If you need driving back to your flat," he said suddenly. "I mean, if we arrive back to London at close to the same time, my driver could drop you home."

"And to the same airport," she said. "Gatwick?"

"Yes," he said. "Arrives about 10."

"Four PM," she said, oddly disappointed. "Ah well. Wait. Your driver?"

He shrugged again. "It can be more practical than driving and having to park at the airport."

"I suppose that's true," she said. "So do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" As the words left her mouth, she realised it sounded like some kind of proposition. Hurriedly, she added, "I mean, you were meant to be in Switzerland tonight, weren't you?"

He nodded. "I plan on making the drive after dinner," he said with a smile. "You'll note I did _not_ have the beer."

This struck her as funny, and she giggled uncontrollably. "Sorry," she said, her cheeks pink and hot.

"Don't apologise," he said, his eyes kind. "It's nice to be in the company of someone who feels free to express themselves. To _laugh_."

She got the sudden impression that his work did not lend itself to much laughing, and she instantly felt more sober. She very nearly said 'Sorry' again, but stopped herself.

He paid the bill for dinner, to which she protested; she could only express her thanks again for everything he'd done to help her. "I feel I owe you," she said.

"Nonsense," he said. "You'd've done the same for me."

She nodded, though she didn't feel she'd ever had her life together as much as Mark Darcy had. "Let me give you my mobile number," she said. "I mean, for when I have my phone back. And you can let me have yours."

He reached into his wallet and slipped out a business card to give to her, on which his mobile number was written. She had to make do with a sheet of paper from her notebook. 

"Hope you can read this all right," she said as she penned the last few numbers.

"Seems clear enough. Thanks."

As he took the paper from her, his fingers brushed along hers. Did she imagine the spark she felt from him? She must have; he withdrew his hand and looked away quickly, almost awkwardly, folding the paper and tucking it into his wallet.

They stepped out into the pleasant night air, walking back towards her hotel. They ascended the stairs and he stopped just before entering the hotel. "This is where I leave you," he said. "Good luck with the rest of your work here."

"Thanks. Oh. Good luck with your drive," she said. "Be careful out there."

"I will be," he said with a tender smile. "Take care." He paused for a moment—she wondered if he might try to kiss her goodnight/goodbye—but then he turned to descend the steps and walk in what she presumed was the direction of his car.

"You too," she said quietly to no one. _Dammit. I should have kissed him goodbye._

………

Once she had her mobile back, once she felt whole again, she easily got back into her work groove, and the remaining two days went by in a blur. Before she knew it she was in a taxi winding its way to the Bodensee Airport; her little German excursion had come to an end. The ride would likely be a bit pricey, but she wasn't about to risk missing her flight by taking any form of public transit, especially since her rescuer and saviour had long since gone his own way.

The nonstop flight was uneventful—exactly the best kind of flight—and before she knew it the plane had touched down on the tarmac at Gatwick. She retrieved her bag from the overhead storage compartment and made her way towards Arrivals, where she hoped to find a taxi, when she saw a legal-pad-sized sign that perplexed her:

PAM AND COLIN'S DAUGHTER BRIDGET

She did not recognise the man holding the sign, but believed only one person could be behind this: Mark Darcy. His flight would have landed hours ago, though. Cautiously she approached. "I believe that's me," she said, indicating the sign. "I'm Bridget Jones."

The driver, a handsome young man of colour, nodded. "Do you have any bags to claim?"

She shook her head. "I just have this bag."

He held out his hand, and she handed it to him. "Follow me, miss."

She did as he asked—a small part of her brain thinking that she could easily have been led away by a kidnapper or axe murderer—and he brought her to a sleek silver car. To her surprise, Mark was in the car.

The driver opened the door for her and she climbed in beside Mark. "What are you doing here?" He smiled, then laughed lightly. "I'm sorry, that came out all wrong," she added quickly. "I just did not expect this at all."

"My flight was delayed," he said. "So I figured you'd still need a lift, and that we could just swing you by your place."

"That's awfully kind," she said. "But the sign. I gave you my last name."

"I thought your parents' names would be more specific," he said with a grin. "And that you might know it was me."

"That I did," she said, relaxing back into her seat for the ride. "Well, I do appreciate your thoughtfulness, though I can't imagine what's possessing you to be so nice to me."

"Why wouldn't I be?" he said, and the expression on his face spoke of his genuine curiosity that she would ask.

"Sorry," she said again; she felt her face flush hot with embarrassment. "I seem to have foot-in-mouth disease today. Sincerely, thank you."

He regarded her for many moments before he said, "It's been my pleasure."

The driver asked for her address, and she gave it; with that, they were off.

"I hope the last couple of days have been somewhat restful for you," Bridget ventured.

"They were, thanks," he said. "I took my time getting to Zurich. What a beautiful drive. Such a lovely respite before heading back into the working world." He reached over. "Care for some water?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, reaching for the proffered bottle, cracking open the seal and taking a long draw.

He said nothing more, and she couldn't think of anything else to talk about, so her gaze drifted out to scan the passing scenery. Before long, the green of the pastures gave way to villages, suburban neighbourhoods, and then to the ever more densely packed buildings as they got nearer and nearer to her Borough Market neighbourhood.

"I believe we're here," said the driver, as the car crawled to a stop.

"Yes, thank you." She looked to where Mark sat, to find he was regarding her in a thoughtful way. "I really appreciate this. Do I owe you anything for the ride?"

He shook his head. "Don't give it another thought," he said.

She smiled, feeling awkward. _Should I ask him up? No, no. He talked about working tomorrow. Gah. Why couldn't I think of anything else to talk about? Stupid, stupid._ "Well," she said at last. "I should go."

He nodded. "You know, if you're free for dinner on Friday…"

"Yes," she said quickly, then added, "I'll check my diary, but I should be. I'd like that."

"Okay," he said with a smile. "I'll be in touch with details."

She wondered how he'd reach her, then recalled she'd given him her mobile number. "Great." Her door opened; the driver had gotten it for her. "Bye."

"Goodbye."

The car waited until she was in her building before driving off.

………

"I have a date on Friday."

Bridget had hesitated on telling her friends later that night about her dinner date with Mark Darcy—about the entire German saga, to be honest—because if it didn't work out for some reason, she didn't want to hear 'I told you so' and 'He sounds perfect, so what'd you do to fuck it up?' But she couldn't think of a good lie quickly enough to deflect the invitation to go out with them to get pissed. So… sheepishly, the truth came out.

"What? Date? Who with?" asked Jude.

"Someone I… met in Germany."

"Oooh, a strapping _German_ lad!" Tom said excitedly.

"No, no," Bridget laughed. "He's English. He just happened to be there too."

"And he lives in London? What a coincidence," said Shazzer, who then drew on her cigarette.

Bridget thought, _You have no idea._

Shazzer continued as she exhaled, "So let's hear more about this mystery man."

"Well," she said, drawing out the word. "He's a barrister. He's tall, with dark hair and brown eyes. He's very kind. He… got me out of a real bind in Germany."

"So is this a pity date?"

"No, not at all," she said, swirling her wine around. "I mean, I was very grateful for the help, but I accepted the invitation because I really like him." She took a sip, contemplating how to tell them about who he really was, because she had in fact told them all about the repeated attempts by her mother to set her up with the son of her parents' friends. "Funny thing, though. I decided that I liked him before I found out he's the actual son of the actual Huntingdon Darcys."

Jude nearly spit out her drink. "The one your mum kept trying to blind-date you with? Are you joking?"

Bridget shook her head.

"And you're sure he didn't, like, follow you there?"

"I'm sure. He'd been there for work, apparently."

"Well, this feels like fucking kismet, doesn't it?" said Shazzer with a broad grin. "Barrister, hmm? Not a droning bore, then?"

"Not that I've seen so far," she said. "He's really clever and pretty smart." 

"And obviously he must be nice to look at," Tom said with a wink.

"Yes," she said. An understatement. That much, at least, she knew she was not romanticising. 

"You'll have to report back," Tom went on. "As to how it goes. You know, if he's a good snog."

"Or a good _shag_."

"Stoppit," said Bridget, feeling the tell-tale heat of embarrassment flood her face, because she couldn't deny she had given both options some thought.

………

_Shall I pick you up at 7?_

She didn't know what she was expecting from Mark Darcy, but a text message was not it. In fact, it took her several seconds to clock from whom she was hearing. To confirm, she responded with: _If this is Mark, and you mean tomorrow night, then yes, that sounds lovely. From my flat?_

After several moments of watching the dancing ellipses that indicated he was responding, she received his response. _This is why I hate SMS, but didn't want to bother you with a call in the middle of a work day. Yes, to all of the above._

She laughed aloud. _It's a date._ After a moment she added: _It wouldn't have been a bother._ At the end, she added a smiley emoji. Or at least she meant to, but accidentally sent the kissy-face emoji. She quickly followed it up with a correction. _Maybe he just didn't notice_ , she thought. She dearly hoped.

She didn't expect a further reply, but got one anyway.

_Duly noted for future reference._

Followed, to her surprise, by the winking emoji. And to her even greater surprise, the same kissy-face emoji.

 _Well_ , she thought. _If he's thinking about a snog, too… that doesn't hurt my feelings one bit._

………

Mark Darcy was on time. Of _course_ he was on time.

Bridget rushed from the bathroom mirror, where she was touching up her makeup, to grab the entryphone.

"Hello?"

"Hi," Mark said. "Are you ready?"

"Just about. Come on up." She pressed the button to release the lock, and within a minute or so, as she slipped into her shoes, there was a soft rap on her flat door. She went to let him in; he'd looked handsome enough in his casual trousers and sweaters, but tonight, he was in a suit and tie and looked absolutely dashing.

Had he really been that tall before? Had his eyes really been that intense?

"Hi there," she said with a smile. "Come on up. Just need to… well, finishing touches."

"No worries," he said, then followed her up the short flight of stairs into the flat proper. She turned to him just in time to see his gaze travelling quickly down then up again with clear appreciation. "I can't imagine what else needs doing. You look lovely."

"Thanks," she said, then let out a little laugh that she hoped didn't sound as nervous as she felt. "I suppose anything's a far sight better than when you first ran into me in Lindau." 

He smiled. "Confidentially, you looked lovely then, too."

With a smile, she said, "Give me just a moment, then we can be off."

He nodded, and she turned to finish her makeup with a delicate application of lip gloss, and ran a brush through her hair one last time. With one last puff of powder to her nose and cheeks, she returned to where she'd left him, to find him gazing down out into the night by the window. She pulled on a light sweater jacket over her dress, but then wondered if it was enough for what he had in mind. After all, he was wearing a suit.

"Is this dress suitable for where we're going?" she asked.

He turned to take her in again. "Oh, yes, quite."

When she saw the name of the restaurant he was bringing her too, she couldn't help but laugh: Stein's Berlin. "I'd hoped you weren't off of German food after your trip," he said, "and I've heard good things about this place."

"On the contrary, I had some really good food," she said. "Nothing's going to top my love for spaghetti Bolognese, but I have high hopes."

He ordered a gin and tonic, while she opted for a brandy coffee drink. They decided on the creamy potato soup for starters. For the main, she went with a decidedly un-German-sounding pork sausage with curry sauce, he ordered a Viennese-style schnitzel as well as a bottle of Riesling to share. Both came with pan-fried potatoes.

As they shared their meal, the conversation was easy and light, though perhaps with an extra charge of electricity than their previous meals together. 

"So many potatoes to choose from on that menu," she said with a laugh, as she swirled her spoon through her bowl. "Thank goodness potatoes are one of my four main food groups."

With a small smile, he said, "As delicious and plentiful as they are, I'll have to spend a bit more time playing squash to make up for them tonight."

Bridget's thoughts went to places unbidden and she lowered her gaze in the hopes of diverting attention from her blush. "Worth it," she said.

"Indeed," he said, dipping the spoon into the creamy soup.

Since they had not talked much during the drive from the airport, she asked for more details about his drive and his stay in Zurich.

"I wish I could claim high culture, a visit to an art museum or taking in some kind of symphony," he said, "but the truth is that I'd planned a visit to the FIFA World Football Museum, so…." 

She could not stop the giggle that bubbled up. "The football museum!" she said.

"Glad to amuse you," he said.

"I'm not laughing _at_ you, I promise," she said. "I think it's pretty great, actually. You're an evolved male, but still a male, all the same."

"I'm not sure that makes me feel better," he said wryly.

"I did call you 'evolved'."

He cut into his schnitzel, trying hard to look offended, but the smile gave him away. He then raised his gaze to meet hers. "And your work," he said. "Your research went well?"

"Once I had my mobile back, it was a lot easier," she said. "I could take photos and make voice memos. I did more the last day than the first two."

"Glad to hear it," he said. "How are your sausages?"

"They're astounding," she said. "Was a little sceptical about a German curry sauce… but it's especially tasty on the potatoes. Want to try a bite?" She held up a sliced-off coin of sausage.

He looked a little stunned. "Um. Sure." He reached forward to take her fork, then ate the offered bite. His brows rose ever-so-slightly. "Well. That was a surprise." 

"In a good way or…?"

"Oh, yes, in a good way. I'll have to remember that dish the next time I'm here."

"And how's your… schnitzel, right?"

He chuckled. "Yes, that's it," he said. "Would you like to try it?"

"Sure."

He used her fork to spear some of his own dish, then handed it to her. She leant forward and took the bite into her mouth. "Mmm," she said. 

"It's your fork," said Mark.

"Oh, right," she said, though it was muffled because of the food in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, and as she took the fork back, her gaze met his again. She couldn't help giggling. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise," he said. "It's nice."

"What is?"

"A _fun_ date."

She smiled broadly, felt heat flush her skin. "Glad you're having fun."

"Are you?"

"I'm having a _great_ time." She reached over to touch where his hand rested on the table, his fingers folded under. "You know, my mum was trying to set us up, and I kept putting her off."

"I have a confession," he said quietly, looking to where her hand rested upon his. "My mother was putting similar pressure on me."

"Really?" she asked with a grin. His eyes flashed up, and he seemed surprised to see her amusement. 

"I'm sorry I didn't—er—"

"You don't have to explain to me," Bridget interrupted. "I thought the worst, and you've shown me how mistaken I was."

He unfurled his fingers; as he did she wrapped her own fingers around them. 

"You do understand," he said in that same low tone.

"I do." She released his hand, then patted the back of it. 

"Don't know about you," he said, "but I'm in the mood for dessert. Apple strudel, ice cream, whipped cream…"

Her eyes went wide. "Planning on doubling up on the five-a-side?"

"Something like that."

He met her gaze again. She thought maybe she had some idea as to what that something might be, and she blushed all over again.

………

She barely tasted the apple strudel for the anticipation to what might follow after they left the restaurant. She decided that she would definitely ask him up, and hoped he would accept.

He did.

"Can I get you—"

Her words were cut short by the sudden embrace he'd pulled her into, and she found his mouth covering hers, kissing her with an ardent passion that took her quite by surprise. He had previously acted in such a polite, gentlemanly way that she didn't quite know what to make of it.

 _Mind you_ , she thought, _it's bloody sexy._

Close to her ear he said, "Sorry."

"Don't fucking apologise," she said with staggered breaths.

She felt a chuckle deep in his throat. "Felt so attracted to you from that night we met," he said, drawing back to meet her gaze, "then you turned out to be such a joy to be around. And then when I connected the dots after speaking with my mother… to think what I might have missed out on."

She smiled bashfully, lowering her gaze. She could only think how similar her own feelings were.

In an instance she felt his fingertips push a lock of hair back behind her ear; she looked up to him again. Instead of the kind reassurance she expected, though, she saw an expression she could only think of as intense, single-minded focus.

"I believe," he said quietly, "you were about to ask if you could get me anything." After a beat he continued, "I think I'd like—"

It was her turn to cut short his words.

### The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some reference links (Initially, I typed "kinks," lolol):
> 
>   * [Lindau, Germany](https://goo.gl/maps/Qw1n8bjNwRmqd3MU9).
>   * A page of [Germany's best beaches](https://www.tripsavvy.com/germanys-best-beaches-1519722). 
>   * [Bodensee Airport](https://www.bodensee-airport.eu/)'s website.
>   * Mark's hotel: [the hotel's website](https://www.bayerischerhof-lindau.de/en/), [and on Google Maps](https://goo.gl/maps/BAahkjtWTUu1tjMY9).
>   * [I used this floorplan for Mark's suite](https://www.astiregnatia.com/egnatia/egnatia-presidential-suite.html).
>   * [Google Maps route from the hotel to Meersburg](https://goo.gl/maps/BPSHhi9P8K8SNwvi6).
>   * Bridget's hotel in Meersburg, [Hotel Seehof](https://meersburg-seehof.de/?lang=en). Looks nice, not too expensive, and close to the museums.
>   * Meersburg museums, [via Google Maps](https://www.google.com/maps/search/museums/@47.6931152,9.2708255,17.94z/data=!4m8!2m7!3m6!1smuseums!2sMeersburg,+Germany!3s0x479af8167165b413:0x41f6bb7a5df84a0!4m2!1d9.2720915!2d47.6954836). 
>   * [The restaurant they went to for their date](https://www.berlininkensington.stein-s.com/).
> 



End file.
